


Slow Burn

by nikki_routed



Category: JYJ (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikki_routed/pseuds/nikki_routed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yoochun’s sigh is loud in the room. “Damn it, Junsu. You know I hate baby-sitting.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn

 

“So,” Junsu smiles, “show him the ropes, will you.”

It’s clearly not a request.

Yoochun stifles a sigh, glancing at the silent figure beside Junsu, then back at him.

“’k, Chief.”

An outsider wouldn’t be able to detect the snark in that response, but he knows Junsu will. They’ve been friends long enough that Yoochun doesn’t give a shit about protocol anymore – off-field anyway – but a pointed reference to the difference in rank is expression of all the things Yoochun’s not saying.

That he’d rather fight ten fires in one day than take a newbie under his wing, that he’s only saying yes because Junsu can make him.

“Thanks, Captain.” Hiding an amused grin, Junsu nods encouragingly at Newbie – _Jaejoong_ , Yoochun corrects himself – before walking away.

Outfitted in department-issued fireman pants and civilian tee-shirt, Kim Jaejoong looks like most people on their first day somewhere, wary with a hint of awkward.

Yoochun pastes a friendly expression on his face. “Did you get the grand tour yet?”

“Um, no.”

“Alright, this way.”

There’s really not much to see, just standard regulation trucks and equipment in a building falling apart at the seams because the city will never assign enough money to get them better premises, worn floor patterned with age-old stains from countless oil leaks and the faint smell of smoke hanging in the air that never really goes away. But Yoochun dutifully walks him around, taking care to point out the bunkers they use when lucky enough to land a quiet night shift, the tiny TV hoisted up in the tiny kitchen with its tiny microwave and huge state-of-art coffee-machine everyone pitched in to buy last year.

They stop at the lockers situated at the back of the building, open-floor showers directly across them. “Did Junsu assign you your locker already?”

Jaejoong takes a hand out of his pocket, lifting a key in the air. Yoochun nods.

“Let’s go get your gear then.”

They make their way back to where they started.

“You call him Junsu,” Jaejoong says, voice measured, thoughtful.

It’s a nice voice. In his mind’s eye, Yoochun can see Jaejoong employing it on the field, soothing panicked victims whose lives have been irreparably touched by forces of nature beyond their control, gentling skittish animals on a rescue mission. He hasn’t used it much though, mostly nodding and confining himself to monosyllabic responses.

He’s also been introduced to three other firemen they run into during the tour and Yoochun is amused by how Jaejoong instinctively shifts a little closer to him, in spite of knowing him for only ten minutes longer than he has known the others.

There’s a thread of shyness there, hiding behind calm features.

“Eh,” Yoochun shrugs, “I’ve known him since we were kids.”

Jaejoong doesn’t say anything else and they spend the next twenty minutes getting him organized. By the time that’s done, it’s almost the end of Yoochun’s shift. Yihan appears to relieve him and Yoochun introduces them, gets Yihan to commit to helping Jaejoong with anything he needs, then mentally washes his hands of the responsibility.

He takes home the fatigue and grime of a full shift, along with the rapidly-fading memory of Jaejoong standing uneasily by the lockers.

 

*

 

“Where’s Jaejoong?”

Yoochun looks up from where he’s checking his gear. It’s mandatory to inspect your equipment every shift for safety purposes and given the number of years he’s been doing it, the process is conducted purely by rote, all muscle memory and little thinking.

“….Around? Probably?” Yoochun suggests, blinking a little in the face of Junsu’s obvious displeasure.

Belatedly he realizes Jaejoong can’t be here, his shift ended when Yoochun’s started. Besides, he would have seen him.

“I asked you to keep an eye on him.”

“No,” Yoochun says slowly, “you asked me to show him the ropes, which I did.”

Junsu frowns at him. “Don’t be difficult, you know what I meant.”

Yoochun’s sigh is loud in the room. “Damn it, Junsu. You know I hate baby-sitting. Why don’t you ask Yihan, he seems a better man for the job.”

“Oh, the same Yihan who let him be bullied into making two hundred and fifty finger sandwiches for tonight’s dinner because, apparently, that’s the tradition when new people join our department?”

Incredulous, Yoochun stares at him. “What the fuck?”

“All home-made, no take-out. The little shits,” Junsu bites out. “Everyone on last night’s shift now has double duty this weekend.”

All fire departments work in the same way, 24 hours on, followed by 24 hours off. Yoochun had started his shift Monday evening and ended it Tuesday evening, which was when Jaejoong started his first shift, except he had come in a little earlier to get the paperwork and all other first-day mundane BS out of the way.

Now Yoochun is about three hours into his Wednesday shift and all the relaxation gained on his day off is sliding right off his bones.

He winces at the thought of how miserable his colleagues are going to be the coming weekend, but then his mind forms an image of Jaejoong making 250 sandwiches at the end at a 24-hour shift. He has to force himself not to squirm.

He wasn’t a part of this, he reminds himself. Hazing is practically a rite of passage in these parts, though it’s more usually along the lines of beer drinking challenges on days off or fake fire calls, typical of any place that requires locker rooms for grown men and too much testosterone. This trick is a little more mean-minded than the normal fare though.

Maybe he could have stuck around to properly introduce Jaejoong to everyone else on his shift. It would have taken him an extra half hour at most, and then maybe Jaejoong could have gone home and slept, instead of having to make sandwiches no one needs in time for firehouse dinner.

Something uncomfortable stirs in the pit of his stomach.

“Who told you?”

Junsu looks irritated. “No-one. I went in for a cup of coffee and found the cook with his feet up, watching some bloody celeb reality show.”

“Why didn’t you call Jaejoong and tell him it was a prank?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Junsu huffs, with an annoyed flick of his hand. “I can’t get involved with petty things within a team, it would seem like favoritism and will do him no favors.”

“You punished everyone with double duty,” Yoochun points out.

“That’s for compromising a team-member’s capacity to respond to a call and for unauthorized sanctioning of Cook’s day off,” Junsu says tartly.

There is a reason why Junsu made District Chief, one of the youngest in their state.

“Just keep an eye on him.”

Yoochun studies him. “Why do you care so much?”

“Two of his brothers-in-law were at the academy with me, asked me to keep an eye out.” Junsu’s eyes send him a warning. “Off the record.”

Though Junsu and Yoochun have known each other for more years than they can count, they are not the same age and trained at the academy a few years apart.

“How professional. Not favoritism at all.”

“Screw you. And anyway–“ Junsu nibbles his lower lip. “–there’s something about him, don’t you think?”

Yoochun doesn’t know what to think.

So he deflects the question with a comment about bad taste in reality shows and firmly pushes Jaejoong out of his mind.

Which is why he can’t explain his own actions when eight o’clock finds him pacing by the firehouse doorway and scanning the parking lot for activity.

He tells himself he is just following Junsu’s instructions, it’ll make a pleasant change, then straightens at the sight of Jaejoong walking towards the building, massive foil-wrapped tray in hand.

An unexpected pang goes through Yoochun at the sight of the smudges exhaustion has painted under his eyes, dark like ink.

Jaejoong stops at the entrance and holds out the tray for Yoochun to take.

“Was I had?” he asks, with a lot more nothing in his voice than one would expect.

“Yes.” Yoochun’s reply is short as he shifts his weight in order to balance the tray better. “Smells good,” he offers quietly, studying the other’s face in the unflattering glare of too many lights. It’s poor consolation, he knows.

“I guessed as much,” Jaejoong says, with a nod of acknowledgement for the compliment. “But only after I finished making all two-fifty.” His smile is wry.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” The words are accompanied by a shrug. He doesn’t look angry at all, just tired, in a way that goes beyond physical weariness. “Half are vegetarian, I wasn’t sure...”

“Junsu gave everyone double duty,” Yoochun says, compelled to say something. There’s the guilt again, though logically and by every existing rule book, he has nothing to apologize for.

Jaejoong shoots him a surprised look. “He did?”

“On the week-end.”

Jaejoong shakes his head. “He didn’t need to.”

“Yes, he did.”

That falls out of Yoochun’s mouth without permission, in spite of his decision not to take sides. Workplace politics are a delicate affair and Yoochun gets on by staying the hell out of everything and letting Junsu handle what needs to be handled.

Jaejoong laughs, a surprisingly loud burst of sound, eyes smiling at Yoochun in the first open expression he has worn since they met.

Strongly relieved, strangely pleased, and baffled at feeling either, Yoochun jerks his head towards the parking lot behind.

“Go on, then. You look– “ _dead on your feet_. What he says though is, “–like shit.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jaejoong makes a face. “Just what one likes to hear.”

“A people’s person, that’s me,” Yoochun tells him straight-faced, and is rewarded by another one of those laughs that seem to start in Jaejoong’s belly.

“I want my tray back.”

“Are you okay to drive home?” The more Yoochun thinks about it, the more of a problem it seems. He wasn’t kidding, Jaejoong looks as if the only thing still keeping him on his feet is sheer will-power.

“Yes, Dad.”

Yoochun schools his expression into one of nonchalance. “Sleep well.”

He spends the next hour half-dreading a call reporting some accident on a city highway.  

 

*

 

“How’s Jaejoong doing?” Junsu asks, stopping him on his way into the department on a Monday shift.

“You can’t protect him from everything,” Yoochun grits out, stepping around him and consciously fighting not to clench his hands.

Junsu’s eyebrows rise. “Not trying to. Also not what I asked.”

He tilts his head to one side, pinning Yoochun with a watchful gaze. “Is there something I need to know?”

Yoochun flashes to the memory of Geun Suk in the locker room Saturday, regaling the shift with gossip about how Jaejoong failed the department psych evaluation at twenty-one.

“So his dad is like, a big-shot, decorated county Fire Marshal, right?” Guen Suk snickers, tone filled with relish, soaking up all the avid attention as he sips on coffee. “Old man is so mad about it, he sends him off to the Army to do time, then when he gets back, actually makes him re-do Academy! That’s why he’s still First Class in spite of being our age.”

“How do you know this?” Siwon asks suspiciously.

“Sources,” Geun Suk sniffs. “Alright, alright, _Christ_.” He tosses the empty paper cup into the trash, expression turning sour as the room fills with boos and jeers. “A buddy of mine in the next district was at the academy the same time Jaejoong went back and he was banging the secretary-“

“He was _not_ -!“

At least two members of the audience get to their feet, scoffing at such a tall tale and Guen Suk throws his hands in the air. “So he probably broke into the office some night with friends and looked at files! Who the fuck cares?! The point is, I told you Jaejoong had a story and I was right!”

“His dad sounds brutal,” Jiyong says with a grimace.

“A decorated Marshal’s son failing the psych eval, come on. Is it any surprise he’s embarrassed by his son?”

Standing out of sight in the corridor, every word reaching him clearly, Yoochun is conscious of a building rage.

“Probably less embarrassed than if his son was an incurable gossip,” he says coldly, entering the room and aiming a hard look at the assembled men.

Guen Suk raises his hands in the air, as if backing off, and the others get to their feet hastily, shuffling away in embarrassed silence and avoiding eye-contact.

The insolent smile twisting Guen Suk’s mouth however, doesn’t bode well for Jaejoong.

“Well?” Junsu’s impatient voice drags Yoochun back to the present.

“Gossip,” he says, trusting Junsu will gather enough from that one-word response.

Junsu curses loud and long.

Yoochun understands, he does. Even a district chief can’t discipline someone for gossiping. Neither can a Captain for that matter. But God, Yoochun wants to try. One good, well-aimed punch, right to the–

“I wonder if I should just move him to your shift,” Junsu frowns at the floor.

Yoochun says nothing. The departmental grapevine being what it is, it makes no difference which shift Jaejoong is in, there’s bound to be talk. Bound to be veiled barbs and whispered comments that taper off when he enters the room. Everyone wondering why he failed his psych eval…

Yoochun doesn’t wonder though, he’s a good judge of character. And there’s nothing delicate about Jaejoong, mentally or physically. Nothing fragile about him that screams for help.

Just a steady calm, a quiet poise, carefully guarded expressions that perhaps Yoochun now understands the reason for.

In the end, Jaejoong’s shift doesn’t change.

 

*

 

Two weeks in, Yoochun walks into the department, filled with irritation at battling big-city traffic. A glance at the clock shows he is a few minutes late but he’s not too concerned as he heads straight to the lockers.

There’s no-one there except DongHyun, and Yoochun rolls his eyes at the stealthy, furtive manner the other exhibits as he peers into the showers, out of sight of anyone using them. One of the most common pranks, and one that all firefighters quickly learned to guard against, was personal towels being stolen in the open space showers, necessitating a walk out into the locker area, dripping wet and naked. It’s juvenile and pointless and Yoochun has learned to ignore it when it happened around him.

With idle curiosity about the identity of the intended victim, he glances casually into the room as he passes behind DongHyun, freezing when he catches sight of Jaejoong, all white skin and sinew muscles, the ridges formed by his spine throw into sharp relief as hands sluice water off his hair.

Body moving on auto-pilot, he lunges for the back of DongHyun’s shirt and yanks it, hard enough to put pressure on the neck, then throws him against a locker at the far end of the room, out of ear-shot.

“ _What_ the _fu_ -!“

DongHyun is a married man, with two kids Yoochun has met on department picnics, and where anger has lent his eyes a red haze, DongHyun remains pale with shame and guilt.

“Jesus, don’t tell anyone,” he blurts, hands clutching at Yoochun’s where they are fisted in his shirt. “It’ll destroy my life– don’t tell–“

Yoochun is known more for keeping his cool than losing it, this being the closest he has ever gotten to initiating violence. But now he shakes with the need of it, drawing deep breaths so he won’t do anything to attract the Chief’s attention. Or worse, Jaejoong’s.

There’s no reason to let this go, except that he can remember the laughing lines of the wife’s face, a petite woman who wears her love for her husband and children on her face, in her rough, un-manicured hands, in the brown-yellow patches on her dress where the youngest spit up his food. He remembers how this man is the sole earning member of his family, a good firefighter, one he can count on to watch his back. Remembers the literal and metaphorical fires they have lived through, across budget cuts and downsizing and sparking wires in old, dilapidated buildings.

Even then, it’s a struggle to square it with his conscience. To spare DongHyun’s family, he must do injustice to Jaejoong.

“If I see you _anywhere_ _near him_ _agai_ – “

“ _No_ ,” DongHyun assures, relief bringing a tinge of color back to his features. Sweat beads his face as he nods feverishly. “I swear it.”

“Get out.”

Yoochun may have decided to spare the man of sexual harassment charges but he in no way feels obligated to be nice about it.

He waits until Jaejoong has showered, dressed and headed out to enjoy his day off, thankfully oblivious to anything that occurred, then storms into Junsu’s office to lean against the closed door, feeling the doorknob dig into his back, in concert with the anger and guilt stabbing at his gut.

“Change Jaejoong’s shift to mine.”

Junsu’s fingers move to massage his temples. “Now what?” he asks, face pinched with frustration.

“Nothing.” He almost chokes on the word. “Just change it. Please.”

Junsu subjects him to an unnerving stare but Yoochun has made a decision – a completely unpalatable one – but one he intends to stick by, so he weathers the look in silence, letting out a quiet breath when Junsu gives in with a grumble.

“Fine,” his friend glares at him. “But damn it, Yoochun, I want to know what’s happening in my own department!”

“Fair enough.” Yoochun gives a short nod. “Next time, I bring it to you.”

There won’t be a next time, not on his watch.

 

*

 

Other than mild surprise and a pleased smile, Jaejoong doesn’t question the change in shifts.

And Guen Suk doesn’t either, after Yoochun quells him with a look.

 

*

 

Unable to keep the smile off his face, Yoochun makes his way over to where Jaejoong is sitting on the steps, waiting for him.

“Why is it Chief has to drag you kicking and screaming to fancy fund-raisers the city throws, but put a bunch of sticky, smelly kids with questions stopping by the yellow truck and you’ll willingly run into overtime?”

“I’m not really a people’s person?” He waits until Jaejoong’s laugh has faded to ask “You don’t like kids?”

Jaejoong rolls his eyes. “I’d better, my sisters provide the family with plenty.”

Yoochun sits down next to him, the slight brushing of their shirt sleeves a comforting hum in the back of his mind.

They’ve established a habit, coming in early or leaving late, stealing an extended coffee break or making an end-of-shift run for some Jajangmyeon.

“I remember how much fun it used to be when my dad brought us to the firehouse. Which was every weekend if my brother and I had any say.”

Jaejoong props his chin on his arm, head turned to the side. His eyes move over Yoochun’s features in a slow, careful perusal every bit as tactile as a direct touch and Yoochun stays still for him until he is done.

“Second-generation firefighter, that explains a lot.”

“Third,” Yoochun corrects. “My father, and his father before him.”

He feels it with pride, this combined history of strength and courage and sense of belonging to something bigger than. He may hate fund-raisers, and meeting people, holding at a distance those whose eyes tell a different story than their lips, but his sense of duty is a strong tether, binding him in intangible ways to the rest of humanity.

“My dad used to bring me to the firehouse as a kid too,” Jaejoong says, but his voice is lackluster, very little enthusiasm or nostalgia attesting to less than happy memories, so unlike his own.

“What did you want to be when you grew up?” Yoochun asks quietly. It doesn't take a genius to know firefighting hadn’t been it. 

A veil drops over Jaejoong's eyes. 

"Manly and tough," he says, the mockery in his voice clearly turned inward.

Yoochun looks away.

 

 

*

 

 

Mid-August, Yoochun goes into work and finds Jaejoong frowning as he pores over an apartment rental book.

"Why are you looking at apartments?"

Jaejoong smiles but his eyes are worried. "They are selling my apartment complex as condos and if you can't buy, then you are out on the street."

"Can they do that?" Yoochun is pretty sure there are laws against this sort of thing. 

"Technically yes, since they waited until all our leases ran out." 

"Damn."

Jaejoong runs a distracted hand through his hair. "I'd forgotten how hard apartment-hunting is in the city."

"Move in with me." 

Jaejoong shoots him a wry grin. "Yeah, sure."

"I mean it." He does. 

It's not something he had ever thought about, since he loves his privacy, but sharing space with Jaejoong doesn't seem like a hardship. 

When all Jaejoong does is stare, Yoochun takes a seat beside him.

"It's not charity, I'd expect rent," he points out.

Clearly the right thing to say, judging by how Jaejoong's shoulders visibly relax. 

"I-Are you sure? Because I'm pretty desperate here."

Yoochun waves the question away. "I can give you something to sign by tomorrow. When do you have to move?" 

"The end of the week."

"Time enough to pack."

 

*

 

Moving in is easy and without incident. _Settling_ in is more complicated. 

Jaejoong is like a cat, scenting out unfamiliar territory as warily as any feline Junsu owns, overly concerned with boundaries and exceedingly cautious of not offending his roommate and landlord. 

But Yoochun is a patient man and at the end of several weeks, he returns home from dinner at his mom's to find an empty pizza box on the floor, a re-run of an old rom-com playing on TV, and a sleepy Jaejoong curled up on the couch groggily asking "Do you see the remote?"

Yoochun feels a surge of satisfaction entirely disproportionate to the moment and hides a grin.

"Scoot over." He nudges at Jaejoong's foot with his knee and finds the remote squished between the cushion and the back of the couch.

He doesn't flip channels because Jaejoong has already fallen back into a doze.

 

*

 

The clothes-sharing happens entirely by accident and only because they start combining their laundry in the interests of time and efficiency.

“That’s _my_ black shirt.”

Yoochun looks up from where he’s making kimchi on toast for breakfast since Jaejoong has some _odd_ culinary habits, and at the man leaning against the counter a few feet from him.

He had grabbed the shirt from his closet that morning after a quick run and shower and there’s nothing to indicate it’s _not_ his, neither in the way it fits across his shoulders nor in the way it hugs his arms.

He glances down at the shirt, then back at Jaejoong suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

Jaejoong reaches out a hand, stopping inches before he touches Yoochun’s bicep, fingers hovering over the tiny jagged hole where the fabric has just started to fray from use, barely noticeable unless you knew it was there.

“I’m sure.”

And now that Yoochun thinks about it, the tee-shirt feels a lot softer than he remembers. He frowns.

“It’s really soft.”

“I know, that’s why it’s my favorite.”

Yoochun slides the toast off the pan and into a plate, then offers it to Jaejoong.

“That’s because you haven’t given _my_ black shirt a chance,” he coaxes.

Jaejoong snorts. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not sticking me with that thing.” He tilts his head. “If you’re stealing my black shirt, I want your grey one.”

“Done.”

The secret to successful coexistence is, after all, compromise.

 

*

 

Jaejoong is tactual and controlled by rules.

His hands hover in the air a lot, fingers out-stretched as they pause just before touching Yoochun, palms pressing the laughter down when it gets too loud, body closing in on an instinctive lean then jerking straight, held in place by lessons Yoochun wants him to unlearn.

But Yoochun is a patient man.

 

*

 

Yoochun leans against his locker door waiting on Jaejoong to finish changing, his roommate’s body turned away from the rest of the room and from Yoochun.

He's very careful never to look, but he doesn't ever leave Jaejoong alone at shower or changing time either. Instead, his eyes go around the room, bouncing off corners and doorways and any other people in there with them, senses on alert.

He knows this doesn't help the whispers rife around the department but he never was one to care for other people’s opinions anyway.

He’s very careful not to look but Jaejoong surprises him by yanking his shirt off while he is in mid-conversation, the pale expanse of skin the same as it was the one time Yoochun got a brief look at it. This time, however, he’s close enough for a burst of color to catch his eye, low on the left hip where the waistband of Jaejoong’s jeans are barely hanging on.

“What’s that?”

Without thinking, he steps forward, holding a slim hip in place with one hand as he stares at the orange, yellow and red, vivid against a background of white.

“A phoenix,” Jaejoong murmurs, the merest breath of sound.

_Reborn of ashes._

Yoochun nods absently to himself. It’s perfect. It’s very Jaejoong.

He only realizes his thumb is making slow passes over the patch of colored ink when the skin underneath pebbles.

Swallowing hard, he steps back, turning away and resolutely picking up the thread of their forgotten conversation, tips of his fingers still tingling with sensation.

 

*

 

It starts out as a routine call, the fire a result of an improperly-tended fireplace as the family turned in for the night. Routine because while winter may settle into the city slowly, it is always with deadly effect.

The house is close to being unsalvageable by the time they get there, though the team makes a massive effort anyway. But at least the residents and pets are safe and no lives are lost.

Yoochun and the others work with adeptness to ensure the blaze is contained and doesn’t spread beyond the perimeter, weathering the scorching heat of the flames stoically.

“Please.”

Yoochun only becomes aware of the voice when someone grabs his arm, stopping him on his fifth, or possibly twelfth, trip around the back of the house.

It’s the grandmother of the house currently going down in flames, looking distraught.

“Halmoni?” Yoochun bends his body to meet the eighty-something, barely hundred-pound woman. “You shouldn’t be here, please get on the other side of the pavement–”

Fingers dig like claws in a surprisingly strong grip on his arm.

“Please. My husband’s ashes. In the living room. Please.” 

Her voice wavers on the plea, grief and desperation drawing grooves on her face that have nothing to do with age.

Yoochun’s heart sinks. “Halmoni–”

He wants to refuse, knows he should.

It's beaten into you in academy to follow your head in a situation, to follow protocol and never your heart.

But as he looks down into her lined face, her frantic pulse evident in breaths coming too rapidly, in a body ill-prepared and already worn down from the shocks of losing all one’s belongings in the space of less than an hour, he thinks the fire might still indirectly claim her victim this night if he refuses.

“Ok,” he nods, gently moving her further away from the heat of the flames and into safety, committing her directions to memory on where to retrieve the ashes.

Then he blanks his mind and dives back into the burning house, without a word to anyone.

It takes him a few minutes to locate the urn, the ceramic container stained black in places but otherwise having survived the fire that has ravaged the rest of the living room.

But back in the corridor, a section of the floor-board splinters under-foot, gravity working against him as his body drops suddenly right through the jagged hole.

Sheer instinct has him flinging his arms wide to catch on either side, weight distributed across them. It works - to a degree. 

He doesn't free-fall into the basement below, but hanging suspended in the air with the edges of the floorboards jabbing into his armpits as it creaks ominously is only slightly better. He forces himself to breathe slowly so the compressed air in his tank won't run out before he can figure out how to stay alive. 

Below him, the radio that had slipped from his pack makes tinny sounds that he can barely hear. He knows better than to think someone will come for him though, if only because they can no longer even see the rest of the house for the smoke and flames.

The few attempts to lift himself out of the hole are unsuccessful, not least because the breathing apparatus is a heavy weight on his back. He can’t unbuckle it though, because if he does, smoke inhalation is going to get him in less time than he can find an escape route.

The fire had started in the entertainment room upstairs, so it’s only just started to lick its way to the basement but though this buys him a little time, it’s not a whole lot.

A huge wooden beam falls only feet away from his head, tearing away from the roof with a huge crackle and roar of sound as the fire attacks the very foundations of the house. Yoochun ducks instinctively, even though he can’t possibly avoid any overhead threats, trapped in place as he is.

But having narrowly avoided getting his head bashed in, Yoochun sees that the beam could be his savior. Made of thick, solid wood, perfect for building a long-lasting foundation, the beam proves a good match for the flames trying to eat at it. Now if he can just pull it a little closer to him, it will act as mooring, giving him the support he needs to drag himself out.

The qualities that make this a great plan also make it hard to execute.

The beam is so heavy, it seems to resist every effort by Yoochun to move it closer. And seeing as it’s just out of reach, only the tips of his fingers making contact with the hot smooth surface, there’s just not enough leverage available to be able to get it closer single-handedly. If he uses more than one hand, he’s going to fall right through the hole into the basement below and then it is game over.

This is not worth it, he thinks in a moment of intense clarity brought on by the knowledge of imminent death. 

Just like they talked about in movies and books, only far, far more visceral in a way only one’s own demise can be.

His life doesn't exactly flash before his eyes but he thinks of his mom and her gentle command to drop by for dinner later in the week. 

He thinks of his brother teasing him mercilessly about his new sweater. 

_The picture of careless hobo, well done Hyung, don't tell anyone we are related, ok?_

He thinks of Jaejoong - brittle bones wrapped up in strong skin and rigid control, wearing his emotional scars on his hip colored like a sunset.

Hand pausing just before it touches Yoochun as he laughs at the empty album on the phone. 

_I promise selfies don't hurt._

He has a moment longer of regret before he sets his teeth, re-doubling his efforts. And maybe some higher power is keeping watch or maybe it’s all the adrenaline or maybe it’s because there’s nothing quite so motivating as the knowledge of certain death, but this time, he not only manages to hook his fingers over it, he also gets it to slide the tiniest bit towards him.

Come on, Yoochun thinks, _come on_.

The meagre success fuels the rest of his energies, the beam inching closer and closer, getting easier as it does, until finally it is near enough to allow the use of both arms.

Pausing only to draw a long breath of what air remains in his tank, hands scrambling for purchase on the beam, Yoochun uses its weight as anchor to lift himself up and out.

As muscles grown weak with oxygen deprivation strive to carry his weight once again, he gets back up on shaky feet and makes his way out and away from the flames.

A lot of hands are grabbing at him, yelling, helping him remove the tank from his back as he desperately drags in deep gulps of clean air, eyes searching...

" _Fucking asshole!_ " Jaejoong screams at him.

Yoochun goes down under the combined weight of a 170-pound man wearing 70-pound gear.

_"You fucking asshole!"_

“I'm sorry,” Yoochun says, the words barely making it past his dry, scratchy throat, one hand resting above Jaejoong's elbow because that's all he can manage for now. 

Yoochun takes responsibilities seriously. He keeps his promises, the ones he made to serve and protect his country, to safeguard life and property.

But there are other promises that are just as important.  

To come back to his family after each shift, to never make his mom look like she had the day the chief showed up at the door instead of her husband, the same way Jaejoong looked at him now, all vestiges of control stripped clean off his skin.

“I'm sorry.”

He can’t make himself stop apologizing. 

Later, when the medic had cleared him for smoke inhalation and declared him injury free, and after the old woman had stopped by to apologize, tears in her eyes and remorse leaving her frail thin body shaking, when it was just him and Jaejoong inside a too-quiet parked ambulance, the latter's head buried in his knees, Yoochun decides he has been patient long enough.

“When we get home, you are going to move your things.”

“Into my room,” he clarifies when Jaejoong's back stiffens. “It will make sharing clothes easier.”

“And then, and then Jaejoongie–” He pauses to taste the name on his tongue and lips, all the sweeter for having held it back so long. “–you are going to let me look at that tattoo all I want.”

“How romantic.” The response is thick with residual fear and threadbare with emotion and muffled by his knees.

Yeah, Yoochun thinks.

He's going to romance Jaejoong. He is going to spoil him, be everything he needs until Yoochun is the only home he wants. Until Jaejoong lets his body lean into his without thought.

And Jaejoong will never think he is not enough again. 

**Author's Note:**

> I promised San a fluffy AU but two pages in, this plot came along and hijacked my muse. Which makes this hilarious and quite possibly, the most Freudian thing I’ve ever written. I only realized it after both my betas mentioned the lack of actual romance in the fic but I’m sorry, I couldn’t write romance. Not when a huge part of me thinks Jaejoong doesn’t need romance right now, he needs the quiet strength of someone who is willing to wait patiently for him.


End file.
